Following
by darcyfarrow
Summary: "There were sudden breaks in the road that led from the Dark Castle down the mountain to the nearest village. There were jagged cliffs and wild things; there were evil queens and other enemies of the Dark One that would snatch at any opportunity to take revenge or leverage power. He had to follow."-What if Rumple had followed Belle after he threw her out? 3 possibilities.
1. Chapter 1

Following: South

**A/N. This is a collection of three stories presenting different outcomes in answer to a question that woke me up at 3 a.m.: what if, after throwing Belle out of the Dark Castle, Rumple had realized the danger he'd put her in, and had followed to make sure she was safe? And what if, instead of going whichever direction that episode 2.11 takes her in (let's say it's east), Belle had gone a different direction?**

* * *

She didn't understand him. Of course not; he'd given her no information, all these months, to go on. So when he threw her out it was shock, then confusion, she showed him, in those blue eyes that hid nothing. And when he still gave her nothing to understand, she finally turned to the response he'd wanted: anger. She gave him a thorough dress-down, noble lady that she was, before spinning on her heel and marching from the dungeon, from the castle, from his life, and expecting at every turn to be followed and pleaded with for forgiveness, because she assumed this was some fit of pique born of heat that would quickly die down. She didn't know it had come from the coldest place in his heart, how long it had festered there, because she didn't understand.

Did he owe her an explanation, one human to another? As he listened to her heels clacking rapidly across the tiles of the Great Hall, he thought to follow, only to give her the explanation she deserved and could take comfort in. . . and think better of him for. Even just "for my son" would help. From the moment she'd dropped from his ladder into his arms, he'd known he would have to rid himself of her, but even by then it was too late to do so painlessly. If only he hadn't been so weak as to let loneliness dictate his dealings that day in her father's castle-turned-battlefield, and all the rest of the days she'd stayed. If only he'd kept her in the dungeon until he could trade her for something more precious, as he had told himself—as he had lied to himself—that he intended to do, when he first demanded her as his price. But there was nothing more precious than Belle, and he was worse than an old monster: he was an old fool.

If he followed her, if he gave her the explanation she deserved, she would cling to him. She would begin to bargain with him: "If we do this, if we do that, we can stay together, find Bae together." She didn't understand the cost of magic, as he did. She didn't understand the cost of foolishness. No, the best gift he could give her was righteous anger, the only goad that would drive her away and keep her away. That would enable her to let him go and seek a safe happy ever after for herself. Maybe someday, with her grandchildren gathered around her for some grand occasion, she would remember the old monster with a puzzled fondness, but she would never understand.

Hours later, as he spun worthless straw into worthless gold, he remembered she'd gone without her bag, without her cloak, without her clothes, without money, without a map. . . . without a weapon to protect herself. There were sudden breaks in the road that led from the Dark Castle down the mountain to the nearest village, and she'd only traveled that road once. There were jagged cliffs and wild things; there were evil queens and other enemies of the Dark One that would snatch at any opportunity to take revenge or leverage power. He'd sent her away with less than she'd had when she arrived. Such cruelty was pointless.

He had to follow. Just to provide her enough to take care of herself.

It was not difficult. Her essence was burned into his memory and would remain there long after she had passed from this life and into the next. He packed her bag with her clothes, money enough to travel the world, and a charm that would keep her from harm. Then he followed.

He found her at nightfall, cold and confused beneath a barren tree. She was a noblewoman; she didn't know how to read the stars to find her way home, how to forage, how to shelter, and he was an old, cruel fool for throwing her out like this. Cruel to her, foolish to himself, because if he'd thought of her protection as he was plotting his own, he wouldn't have put them into this position. He could have set her up somewhere safe and comfortable. He could have sent her away with a clear conscience.

But now he'd have to do something about it. He sat in a distant tree as he watched her and thought. She shivered. If only he'd thrown her out in the autumn, she would have fallen leaves with which to make a bed. Her stomach rumbled. If only he'd thrown her out in the summer, she could pluck fruit from these trees. But no, he'd thrown her out in the spring, when rains had turned the road to mud, and now the hem of her dress was wet and she would die of a chill or starvation if the wild things didn't get to her first. How could he be so short-sighted? So self-absorbed, that he didn't think of these things?

She sat among the roots of the barren tree and removed her broken shoes. She tucked her wet feet under her skirts, made a pillow of one of the roots and tried to sleep, but every nightbird call, every leaf rustle kept her from rest.

There was only one thing for it. He conjured a cottage in the woods, made it bright and tight and welcoming, and he conjured a disguise for himself, and he leapt from his perch and approached her, slowly, hobbling on a stick, as he so well remembered how to do. He made certain to be noisy about it, awakening her before he'd come too close. Still, her eyes flashed fear in the moonlight until he'd stepped out into the clearing and she could see what approached her: a very old woman, heavy with a basket and a hunched back.

"Hello, my child," he stopped and waited for a sign of acceptance before he came closer. "However did you come to be in this predicament?"

She slipped her shoes back on, watching him warily. "Hello, old mother. I, uh, I've lost my way."

"That much is clear. Have you no chaperone? No carriage about?" When, wisely, she didn't answer, he continued in his grandmother voice, "You needn't fear me, child. I'm far too gone in years to be a threat to anyone. The animals told me you were here and needed help, else I never would have left my hearth to wander in the woods."

"The animals told you?" She doubted the claim.

"They told each other, and I eavesdropped."

This she could accept; still, she stood, ready to flee, not yet trusting. He supposed he had Regina to thank for that. . . and himself.

"I too am alone, since fever took my husband and wanderlust took my son, years ago." He inched forward, careful to remain in the moonlight so she could see his movements clearly. "Someday, I suppose, I shall have to move into the village, where the sanitation will likely finish me, if the soft living doesn't take me first. But for now, I prefer to remain in my home." He pointed with his walking stick. "It's just over there. A wonder that you overlooked it."

Belle dutifully glanced in the direction he pointed and her forehead creased in confusion and suspicion.

"Will you come, or are you quite comfortable sleeping on that old tree?" He raised a single finger to stay her answer. "Before you decide, I should perhaps warn you, since you seem a stranger to this wood, that it was a long winter and the wolves are hungry. As I am," he turned away from her, moving toward the cottage. "As, the growling of your stomach tells me, you are." He kept moving, not looking back.

A twig snapped, informing him she followed. He smiled slightly.

Upon arriving at the cottage, he entered first—she remained yards behind, not yet trusting—and left the door open so she could see inside: the comfortable chairs, the welcoming lantern, the bubbling kettle hung over a gentle fire, the table laid with a platter of bread and cheese. A kid bleated from the front yard and he shooed it away. "No, Ruth, you can't come in. Go find your mother."

This made up Belle's mind, as he knew it would: she assumed one who is kind to animals must also be kind to humans. She would learn better someday, but for now, she followed him inside, pausing at the threshold. He let her take her time, busying himself with stirring the contents of the kettle, laying another log on the fire, setting another place at the table. He put a smaller kettle on the fire to heat water, sliced the bread, laying a slice on each plate. Still she remained in the doorway.

"Close the door, please, or Ruth will come in. You can leave it unlatched if you prefer."

She closed the door.

He carried a bowl to the kettle and ladled out a fragrant stew, carried it to the table and set it beside a plate. He filled the second bowl and carried it to the table, and still she hadn't moved. He drew up a second chair to the table—the arrangement of the furniture suggested that while at one time, two had lived here, only one now occupied the house. He set his walking stick aside, placing it in easy reach, careful of it as one who had long needed such an aid would be. He remembered that detail well.

"Well, d—child, as you can see, there's enough for two. Join me if you like, or continue to block my door, it's up to you, but I can hear your stomach grumbling from over here." He dropped tea leaves into two mugs and filled them with water, carried them to the table. "My name is Elsbeth, but those who buy from me in the village call me Mother." He seated himself and slathered cheese on the bread. "You needn't share your name, if you don't want to. Or give me a false name; it's all the same to me."

He took a large bite of the bread, and that broke her. She entered, withdrew the empty chair from the table and started to sit, then hesitated. "I'm muddy. I'm sorry, I made a mess of your floor."

"I suppose you didn't notice my shoes are no cleaner." He shrugged, closing his eyes in pleasure as he chewed the bread. "Life is messy." He smiled as he swallowed. "Naomi produces the most delicious milk and cheese." He spooned up some stew, blew on it to cool it. "The stew is thin; for that I apologize. It was a long winter." He swallowed the stew with another smile of contentment. "Ah, but the right spices can make one forget the lack of meat." He pointed his spoon at her bowl. "Eat, or not, it's up to you, but there is enough for a second bowl if you like the first."

She ate.

She helped him clean up, afterward, and accepted his invitation to sit beside the fire. He fought the temptation to conjure a hand spindle, lest he reveal too much, but his hands needed something to do so he brought forth knitting needles and mended a frayed sweater. "I have an extra pair of needles. Do you wish to knit?"

"Oh. . . no, I. . . never learned." She folded her hands in her lap, awkwardly, as though suddenly aware of their uselessness. "Thank you. For the food, the fire." She shivered and pulled her chair closer to the fire.

He clicked his tongue and set the knitting aside. "Old fool that I am," he muttered. "I forgot about the condition of your clothes." He walked to the back of the cottage, drawing aside a curtain to reveal a small room containing a bed and a wardrobe. He took some garments and a rough towel from the wardrobe and laid them on the bed, then returned to the main room, where he took up his knitting again. "Go in and change into something dry. My clothes may be a bit large for you, but they're warm. You can take the kettle of water with you and wash off that mud."

She started to object, but his tone indicated he would brook no argument. "Your feet, dea—child, at least wash your feet." He shook his head sadly. "Those shoes have done more damage than good. I have a pair of sturdy boots beside the bed. Take them."

Belle stood, but hesitated. "I—can't pay you."

"You will," he said. "In the morning, before you leave, you will help me plant my garden. That will be payment enough for second-hand clothes and watery stew."

She seemed satisfied with this deal. Closing the curtain behind her, she changed out of her wet clothes. He could hear her sigh as she splashed water into the basin; as she washed, he could hear her hum a tune she used to hum while scrubbing the floors of the Dark Castle. He closed his eyes in longing.

He could keep her here. He could reveal himself and she would laugh at the clever prank and they could stay here, in this warm cottage, just the two of them, safe from evil queens, forever, as she had promised. She wouldn't resist: she loved him. Besides, she had nowhere else to go. He'd known that from the moment he escorted her from her father's castle: her family and friends would never welcome her back. Knowing he'd made her a pariah, didn't he owe her a home? Wasn't he obligated to keep his promise of forever?

He tossed the knitting aside, tented his fingers to think more clearly. He could bring his books and potions from the Dark Castle: nothing to it, just a snap of his fingers and he could continue his work here. It would be weeks, maybe months, before Regina realized he wasn't coming back to the Dark Castle, and though she would search, she would never find him here. The most powerful mage in the world, living in a peasant's cottage—ridiculous.

They would live quietly—he would accept no more deals; he would stop his flitting about. They would live comfortably. Happily. And in that quiet and comfort he would finish his work. Not the curse, no; he'd stop pursuing that wretched idea. It was all a trick of the Blue Fairy's, wasn't it? A curse would never take him to Bae; it would only entrench him and entrap him in his own evil. All the time he'd wasted on the curse. What a fool.

Not a curse. He'd bottle true love and then he'd find a way to use it to bring Bae home. Wasn't it a known fact that true love was more powerful than any curse? True love would change him, and then Bae would _want_ to come home, and they'd find a way to be a family again. Bae would love him again. It would be safe to love Belle. Rumplestiltskin would have them both. With true love's magic he would be released from the Dark One, free to be a man again, a brave, strong, gentle man. Husband and papa: that would be enough for him. That would be everything.

She emerged from behind the curtain, her hair bound back, her face red from a thorough scrubbing. She'd changed into the faded dress he'd left for her. "Belle," she said. "My name is Belle."

"Thank you, child."

She slept in the bed. He slept in his chair beside the fire, claiming his old bones preferred it. She didn't believe him but she didn't argue. She awoke before he did and he found her in the garden, poking holes in the earth, dropping in seeds. Gardening was one of the practical skills she'd learned in her time at the Dark Castle. She'd figured it out from books; he'd been away too much to teach her. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

They planted the garden together, tended the goats, ate bread and cheese and porridge for breakfast. As he washed the dishes she said she would take a walk to get her bearings. He provided her a warm cloak and a muff, for though it was spring there was a chill in the air, and her hands were already rough and red from months of scrubbing the floors of the Dark Castle. When she returned from her walk he would give her a salve to heal her hands.

He baked a fresh loaf of bread, cut potatoes and carrots to strengthen the stew, poured goat's milk into a pitcher and set it on the table. They would have a fine lunch when she returned.

He sat beside the fire and knitted, wondering when he should remove the spell and reveal himself to her. Probably soon. Stale pranks loose their humor rapidly. As soon as she returned, then.

He wondered when he should tell her his grand plan. Perhaps tonight, after supper, as they rested beside this fire, content in each other's company. He would begin by telling her about Bae. That was one promise long overdue.

As soon as she returned, he would give her the truth he owed her. But first, he would confess he loved her. As soon as she returned.

At noon he went in search of her, assuming she'd gotten lost, or more likely, distracted.

At suppertime he used magic to find her, miles down the road. And then he understood she wouldn't return. He sat on a cloud and watched her walk away from his grand plans. From him.

He would tell her now. Drop down from the cloud, reveal himself, drop to one knee and tell her everything. He stood on the cloud, preparing to jump, but he was interrupted by the rumbling of carriage wheels.

The carriage caught up to her and halted. The little door swung open and a man and a woman hopped out, their clothes identifying them as nobles from the North Country, where Belle had once said she had cousins. The way her arms flew open for them, the way they kissed her cheeks and laughed in delight identified them as her kin or friends. They way they swooped her into their carriage, the driver snapping the reins to urge the horses into a trot, identified them as her new guardians. Her new family.

He threw a lightning bolt at the carriage.

Such an old, wretched, cursed fool. He waved a hand, turning himself back into the thing he was before, half-man, half-imp. Beast. Dark One.

At least, she no longer needed a home.


	2. Chapter 2

Following: North

_. . . .He packed her bag with her clothes, money enough to travel the world, and a charm that would keep her from harm. Then he followed._

The magic led him to the Dragon's Egg. Standing in the road outside, he stared at the sign hanging above the entrance: each crooked letter was painted a different color, giving the lettering a tipsy look and leaving no doubt in a stranger's mind that this was not only a tavern, but a tavern that encouraged heavy drinking. From the road he could smell the booze, the tobacco, the sweat and the vomit; he could hear the raucus off-key singing of sea shanties, the rattle of dice, the curses, the proclamations of gambling victories, the accusations of cheating, the threats of violence.

Granted, his senses were much keener than a human's, but still, surely Belle could not have missed this pungent odor, even if she had somehow missed the sign above. Belle, in a tavern? _Lady _Belle, innocent Lady Belle, his gentle, innocent Lady Belle, in a tavern that encouraged drunkenness, gambling, and—he pulled the door open slightly to peek inside—yes, prostitution? Impossible. He was quite certain she'd never even heard of such vices, let alone would willingly expose herself to them. He tested the magic again: he could sense her presence, stronger than before. The magic took stock of her health: footsore, tired but not exhausted, hungry, thirsty, cold. The magic took measure of her mood: dispirited.

The guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders must be interfering with his senses. She was somewhere in this village, perhaps in a nearby inn—no, she had no money; perhaps, then, in a stable, sleeping in a hayloft—guilt dug its dagger deeper into his soul. In a hayloft, cold, hungry, footsore. Needing him.

He turned and sniffed the wind for the scent of hay and dung, to lead him to a stable. But the magic pricked him, forced his feet to turn back to the tavern. His conscience revolted: was the Dark One so selfish that he would yank Rumplestiltskin from this urgent task just to down a few drinks? He forced the Dark One back into the corner of his brain, but still the magic pushed him into the tavern. He pulled the door all the way open and entered. Gods, he was a worthless case, looking for a drink at a time like this.

With a flick of his wrist he cast a disguise spell: an old peasant, fresh from the farm, reeking of pigs and sheep, hands and accent rough as the weather in which he carried out his livelihood. The tavern was crowded, not an empty table in the place: he waved his hand and a group of crapshooters at a far corner table suddenly felt the need to return to their homes and their wives. The corners of Rumple's mouth twitched as they abandoned their game; he hoped their wives would not be too disappointed in the men's unexpected return. He seated himself at the vacated table, methodically examined the room for threats, opportunities, ladies in robin's egg blue dresses.

He found barmaids in tight blouses that revealed plenty of skin every time they bent to place tankards or shot glasses on a table, or to pick up coins. He found drinkers drowning their sorrows or amplifying their joys. He found pickpockets taking advantage of the drunks. He found a group of dwarves hunkered over beer steins—he didn't bother to count them; he recognized them as Snow White's tribe. So this was Snow's stomping ground, though of course the princess wasn't anywhere around. With a price for treason and murder still hovering over her head, she was probably tucked away in a nearby wood. Rumple eavesdropped on their conversation. Although Belle's duchy was a week's ride or more from Regina's kingdom, it would not be too farfetched to think that Belle might have met Snow at some point, a ball perhaps. Weren't royals obliged to call upon one another from time to time? Especially in lean years, when royal stores were running low and the royal family needed to mooch off someone who could feed them in the style to which they'd become accustomed.

That wasn't fair. Belle was no mooch. Maurice, yes, but not Belle.

A barmaid set a hand on his shoulder and leaned over, advertising her own wares as well as the bar's. He didn't bother to look at her; the sooner he got rid of her, the sooner he could spy on the dwarves. Besides, her scent turned his stomach. She smelled of spilled drinks, stale tobacco, unwashed clothes, unwashed men. Her time could be bought for the price of two shots of whiskey. She smelled nothing like Belle, who smelled of clean water, soap, freshly baked bread. . . who smelled of home.

He ordered two shots of whiskey and sent the barmaid away. When she returned with his order, he tossed coins onto her tray and hissed at her to leave. She tucked the coins into her bodice—how did they not fall out, he wondered?—and went on; her time was money. He downed the whiskey in gulps and the burn of the alcohol dulled the prick of guilt's dagger and cleared his sinuses of the barmaid's scent.

He drew in a breath. He smelled clean water, soap, fresh baked bread.

His head snapped up. He sorted out the voices, separating the strands of sound until he located the one that was uniquely hers. Belle's.

He gnawed his lower lip. There she was, at a table adjacent to the dwarves, a stein of beer between her hands. "It fuels our dreams," she was saying, ostensibly talking to Grumpy, but from the longing in her eyes, talking to herself as well. Rumple could read her like one of her fairytale books: she was talking about love, and she was fighting to hang on to hope. "And if you're in it, you need to enjoy it, because love doesn't always last forever."

There. The bottom fell out of his world. She'd said it: she didn't love him any more.

The little boy in him cried plaintively: so soon? It's been less than a day. She stopped loving me so soon?

That's because she never really loved you to begin with, the Dark One reasoned. Under your roof, she was under your spell. That's why her kiss didn't change you.

Oh but it did. It changed me forever.

"I've had my heart broken enough to know when somebody's reaching out. Now go," Belle was advising the dwarf. "Find your love, find your hope, find your dreams."

She ducked her head, pretending to focus on her beer. After some further discussion with his pals, Grumpy tossed back the last of his mug, wiped his mouth on his sleeve with great determination, rose and marched out. Going after his girl, no doubt. Well, good luck to him. The other dwarves hastily followed.

Belle glanced at them as they left. When her head turned back around, her cheeks were moist with the tracks of tears. She stared into her stein.

Love doesn't last forever. She'd said it. She didn't love him any more.

He waved a barmaid over and ordered a full bottle.

At some point, Belle gave up on the beer. She patted her pockets, and then she realized with a blush she had no means to pay. She glanced at the exit. She was thinking of running out on her tab. Oh, but that was not Belle's style: Rumple knew she wouldn't run. She waved her barmaid over, preparing to explain.

He snapped his fingers and the bag he'd been carrying disappeared from his lap and reappeared in hers. She jerked her head back in shock. The barmaid stood over her, hand outstretched, demanding payment. Belle collected her thoughts long enough to search the bag. She found a coin—he grinned nastily, because he knew she'd found lots of coins and though she recognized the bag and the clothes inside as hers, she couldn't figure out where this money had come from. She paid the barmaid, who bit the coin to test its authenticity. Belle blushed, realizing her honesty was being questioned, but the barmaid was satisfied and dropped the coin onto her tray and left.

Belle frantically dug through the bag. Then her hand froze, her features locked, and her head turned and she slowly, methodically, searched the room. She was looking for him.

He pretended to be studying his bottle. The disguise spell would shield him from her as long as he didn't make eye contact with her. If she looked him in the eye, though she would still be seeing an old farmer, she would recognize him, he believed. Her soul would connect with his; that's how love worked.

Oh, but she didn't love him any more. His soul was safe from her.

From the corner of his eye he watched her tuck the bag under her arm, approach the bartender. He listened to her ask for a room for the night. Not here, Belle, not here, he wanted to shout at her. This place is crawling with thieves and bedbugs, and see that guy at the end of the bar, the one in the gray shirt? He raped a woman two months ago and he's got his eye on you now.

The bartender sized Belle up, shook his head, "Not here. You don't want to stay here. Across the road and three buildings down you'll find a proper inn suitable for ladies."

Belle thanked him and left. Rumple followed her, pausing at the bar long enough to leave the surprised bartender a hefty tip—and to turn the rapist into a spittoon.

* * *

He sat in the rafters, watching the innkeeper escort Belle into the chambers. The inn was small but clean, free of bedbugs and criminals, and the door to this room could be locked from the inside. Belle would be safe here, if not comfortable. She set her bag onto the bed, requested that a hot bath be brought up, paid the innkeeper generously. Once alone, Belle sat down on the bed and dumped the bag out, examining the contents. She appeared puzzled, then shrugged and repacked the bag.

He left her to her bath, but returned to watch her through the night. She didn't love him any more, but he owed her his protection until she made her way—to wherever she would end up.

* * *

They walked for thirteen days, northbound.

He recognized the terrain: Avonlea, still in ruins, though it had been nearly a year since the ogres dropped their weapons and walked away, abandoning the battle. Belle was going home. Didn't she know what would await her? She was no child; she knew the ways of nobles, how they eagerly latched onto any opportunity to bring each other down; how they would relish this opportunity to turn on her for having the temerity to survive, after the Dark One stole her away; the selfishness to choose life over propriety, and worse, the cruelty to walk into their midst, flinging into their powdered faces their own selfishness in allowing an innocent girl to be sacrificed so that they could live. Oh, they'd have a field day with her.

And the commoners, with their superstitions, would call her a carrier, a Typhoid Mary bringing into their village a virus of evil. Worse, she probably had some of his powers now and had come by his command to destroy the village or corrupt the young. Mistress of the Dark One, his seed was probably growing right now in her belly. The only answer for it was to burn her at the stake.

And her father, what would he do? The weak-willed Maurice, would he be led by the nobles and sacrifice his daughter again to save his position? Would he be led by the villagers—and allow them to burn the witch? From the stories of her childhood that Belle had shared, Rumple had no doubt Maurice had been a kind and loving father. The best that could be hoped for was that Maurice would hide her away somewhere, perhaps shuffle her off in the dark of night to some distant relatives or a nunnery. Hidden, alone, until she was forgotten; her bravery, her goodness, her strength wasted.

Maybe then Rumplestiltskin could ride in, a rescuing knight in shining armor. Maybe she could be persuaded to return to the Dark Castle. Oh, but she didn't love him any more.

He watched her make her way through the woods that led to her father's castle, her former home. Her arms swung as she walked; she hummed a tune he remembered, one that she especially favored; it was her way to sing this song as she scrubbed the floors of the Dark Castle, a duchess on her knees, up to her elbows in soap suds. A duchess to her people no more, as she was soon to learn, he dreaded; a duchess only to Rumplestiltskin. If only he had reason to believe she still loved him, he would gladly fall to his knees for his duchess.

But she walked and hummed, assuming she would soon be home, safe and cared for, the Dark Castle and its master soon to be a distant memory. When she left the wood and set foot upon her father's estate, she began to run.

"Milady!"

An old crone rose up from the garden, dropping her shears. With a frantic glance about, the crone ran to her mistress, but when she reached Belle instead of embracing her, she grasped her arm and dragged her behind a tool shed. "Milady," she moaned, stroking Belle's arm, "you're alive, thank the gods. It was so long since we had word of you."

Rumple, perched upon the roof of the shed, scowled at that. Belle had written letters to her father, once a week or more; he'd seen them himself; he'd sent them himself, delivered by magic directly to her father's breakfast table. Someone was lying here, and he suspected it wasn't the crone who was now, at last, embracing Belle.

The crone withdrew to examine Belle, clucking her tongue at what she found, "Ach, your hands! The hands of a scullery maid. We must tend them immediately. But first we have to get you out of here."

"Out?" Belle sputtered. "What do you mean, Elsbeth? I'm going home. The Dark One has released me and I'm going home."

"No, you can never go home," the crone argued. With a backwards glance, she gathered Belle under her arm and led her back to the wood, to a cottage, where she tended those red hands and that tangled hair, offered a hot bath and a hot meal, and then sat Belle down in a comfortable chair and taught her the ways of the world. It was as Rumple had thought: Belle would never be accepted here again, not even by her own father. Worse, she would be in danger here, even from her own father.

Belle cried then. Rumple sat atop the wardrobe in the crone's bedroom as Belle sobbed into a pillow and Elsbeth tried to soothe her. He dug his claws into the scrolled wood of the wardrobe, when he'd much rather leap down and gather Belle to his chest and let her sob on his shoulder. With a flick of his wrist he could sweep her away, take her to her rightful home, to her sunny room in the Dark Castle. He could tuck her into bed, bring her soup, hold her hand as she wept, stroke her forehead as she fell asleep, kiss her as she awoke, recovered from her ordeal, tell her silly jokes until she smiled again. Give her a home again.

But she wouldn't want any of that. She didn't love him any more.

* * *

At nightfall the crone's husband returned to the cottage, and they spoke in low tones, planning Belle's future as she slept. The imp on the wardrobe watched warily when they entered the bedroom, shook her awake, packed her bag, pressed a purse into her hand; the old man led her away, to a carriage hidden deep in the wood, which took her far away as she wept into her hands. Rumple rode atop the carriage, watching for threats. Belle was taken to the docks; the old man paid a captain and she was led into the bowels of a freighter, and at dawn the ship set sail. Belle remained below deck the entire journey, eleven days, hidden in the captain's quarters as he bunked with the first mate. No one disturbed her, the captain saw to that; Rumplestiltskin, perched on the captain's desk, saw to that.

They arrived at a place of eternal winter. A carriage awaited them, and a man and a woman dressed in thick robes tumbled out, wrapped Belle in a robe made of bear fur, then wrapper her in their arms and kissed her and ushered her into the carriage. Rumple rode atop the carriage through barren lands, squinting at the brightness of the snow after the dankness of the ship. He watched as the couple led Belle into a fine house, a warm fire, thick rugs and pretty tapestries in every room. Following behind as the couple took Belle down the corridors to a great hall, he fingered the tapestries, admiring the workmanship, one artist to another; he identified the symbols in the patterns as Norse. He stood in the corner as a cook brought food and mead; he listened as the couple discussed their plans for Belle: they would introduce her in society as a distant cousin—that much was true—whose village had been ravaged by fever. Her family and her fortune gone, the cousin had come to stay. They would give her a new name, new clothes, a new life.

Belle ducked her head, swirling the mead in her tankard. And then she nodded and thanked them for their kindness. She would stay.

He watched them through the evening, talking of old times as they sat beside a roaring fire. When Belle laughed at some old memory, he knew his work was over; he had fulfilled his obligation. When Belle sank into the bed her cousins had provided, pulled the heavy quilts to her chin and fell asleep without shedding a tear, he kissed her forehead and went home, back to the Dark Castle, back to the Dark One.


	3. Chapter 3

Following: West

**A/N. If you look closely at Rumple and Milah's home as shown in "The Crocodile," you'll see lots of sketches. My money's on Rumple as the artist who produced those sketches. I also got to wondering, since obviously it's never happened before, whether True Love's kiss would break the Dark curse and render the Dark One human, as Rumple seems to think, or maybe something completely different would happen. . . . **

* * *

_. . . . He had to follow. Just to provide her enough to take care of herself. _

As was his way, just before he left the Dark Castle he took himself to a sunny room in the west wing, a room with a small bed and a large wardrobe filled with a boy's clothes and a large iron-stripped chest filled with a boy's toys. Above the bed hung a charcoal sketch of the boy. It was curling up at the edges; when he returned, he would have to find a spell that would preserve the paper. He smiled at the portrait, muttered a promise to be home soon—this was his superstition. Though centuries of study had taught him the foolishness of superstition, he was at heart still a peasant. Besides, it was important that he never forget what the boy looked like.

He then walked next door to another sunny room, this one with a large bed with two thick quilts covering a soft mattress—Belle always got so cold at night. From the wardrobe he took her clothes, which he folded carefully and laid in her traveling bag. A book lay open and face down on her pillow; he folded down a page corner to mark where she had left off reading and set the book atop the clothes. He filled the bag with enough money to last a duchess' lifetime.

And then he turned to the charcoal sketch framed above the bed. He touched the smiling lady in the portrait and promised he would be home soon. It was a fair likeness, but it hadn't captured Belle as he had wished to: she wouldn't hold still long enough that day. She sat in his tall chair at the dining table and kept fidgeting, folding and unfolding her hands, chasing down a stray lock of hair, alternately sitting up straight and slumping. The portrait was blurry, because that's how he saw Belle: in motion, moving things around, moving his life around.

This was their secret, the three of them. The whole world knew that Rumplestiltskin could spin straw into gold, but only Belle and Bae knew that Rumplestiltskin could draw. Why he kept that fact hidden, he didn't know. Maybe because having a secret between them made him feel closer to Belle and Bae.

He closed the bag, tucked it under his arm and vanished.

* * *

The magic led him right to her. She was walking along the edge of the westbound road, some seven miles from the Dark Castle; in another five, she would pass through the ghost town of Loameth. Once the Dark One had dragged Rumplestiltskin down into evil, the town had gone down too: cursed, the residents assumed, simply because it had been Rumple's birthplace. Long abandoned, Loameth would have neither food nor shelter to offer her. If she kept going west, by sundown she would enter the thriving town of Alsford. If she turned south, she would have two days' walk to the nearest farm. If she turned north, she would end up at the sea.

In Loameth she stopped in the middle of the rutted road. She stared in dismay, her eyes searching building by building for signs of life. There was life, of course—owls in the rafters, spiders in the corners, rats in the cellars—but she didn't see it. She called a hello. A crow flapped its wings in answer before flying away.

She found the skeleton of the general store. Rumplestiltskin, invisible behind her, reached out to grasp her shoulder to prevent her from entering: the floorboards were loose, the supporting columns decaying: she must not enter. Her body jerked backwards at his touch and she turned, but seeing no one, she frowned and rubbed her shoulder and continued into the store. In haste he threw an immobilization spell upon the building.

She picked her way through the debris, in search of something salvageable. He followed, scanning ahead of her feet, watching for dangers. She leaned down to move a fallen shelf: as she touched the board, he smelled a snake coiled beneath it. With a flick of his wrist he dispatched the snake, not bothering to assess first whether it was venomous; that it would frighten Belle was enough of a reason to be rid of it.

Beneath the fallen shelf she found a box of clothes, which she picked through. There was a thick woolen shawl that would have done her good if it not grown moldy. Wrinkling her nose, she discarded it. She poked around some more but found nothing useful. When she stepped back into the sunlight, he sighed in relief.

The wind was picking up. It would be a cold night. She clutched at her arms, already anticipating the discomfort she would be in if she didn't find proper shelter.

She resumed her travels, thankfully, walking west. Clever Belle: she assessed the condition of the roads leading each direction out of town before she chose to continue west. She probably realized that the most traveled road probably led to the nearest town. She was sharp like that, his Belle: a noticer of details, a deducer of facts. Had she ever tried to bargain with the Dark One, her contract would have required an entire bottle of ink to write, for she would have thought of every angle. He followed behind her, smiling in pride. . . wishing instead of walking out of the Dark Castle, she had demanded a deal of some kind so she could stay.

Her love in exchange for his. That would have been a fair deal.

No. She couldn't have stayed. He couldn't let her see just how corrupt he really was, couldn't let her find out that Regina was his doing, and that there was a curse coming that would tear families apart, destroy the lives of a thousand people whose only crime was to have chosen the Enchanted Forest as their home.

_Nothing is innocent_, he had told Regina. That was a lie.

Belle had to leave, get as far away as possible from the Dark Castle and its evil master, before he corrupted her too. He had to make sure that she never turned back. She must be well out of sight when Regina began her work. With Belle gone, Regina would assume that Belle had grown disgusted with her master and had run off, or that Rumple had tired of her and sent her away; either way, Regina would assume Belle was no longer an effective pawn, and Belle would be safe. By the time Regina cast the curse, she would have long forgotten Belle. The duchess would be left behind, safe, free.

Belle had to keep walking. When in weariness she stopped just a few miles past Loameth, he cast a spell on her feet that prompted her to keep walking. When she licked her lips—he touched his own, remembering her kiss—he conjured a brook from which she could drink. When her stomach ached with hunger, he caused the tree she passed under to drop fruit so she could eat and continue on.

She kept walking, and he followed.

* * *

At last she came into Alsford as the sun set. This was a center of commerce, located as it was beside a strong river, within walking distance of flourishing farms, so a stranger among their midst caused no consternation for the residents, though some did raise eyebrows at a young woman traveling alone. Despite her rough hands and modest attire, something about Belle caught the eye: a directness in her gaze, a confidence in her walk. She still carried herself as a noblewoman. That she had no chaperone raised some suspicion, so he adjusted the invisibility spell he'd placed on himself so that the townsfolk could see him, and when they looked they saw a wrinkled old footman carrying the lady's bag, trailing her a respectful distance.

She paused at the entrance to an inn. Yes, this one, he silently urged her: she would be safe and comfortable here. She smoothed her hair, as a lady would; she ran her hands along her sides, smoothing her skirts. Her hands suddenly froze and her confident gaze dropped; she was discovering she had no money. And for a lady without a chaperone or luggage to enter an inn—

She turned away.

He had to do something. She needed a warm meal, a safe bed for the night or she'd never hold up on this journey, wherever it was she was going.

He flicked his fingers and suddenly she felt an irritation in her shoe. She tried to walk forward but something dug into her foot, so she hobbled to a nearby bench and sat down, withdrawing her shoe and shaking it upside down.

A fistful of coins fell out. Her mouth dropping open, she poked at the inside of the shoe, tried to peer inside it, to figure out where this money had come from, and how she could possibly have walked so far on a layer of coins deep enough to choke a horse. Hastily he cast an invisibility spell on the coins before some little sneak thief could gather them up. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for Belle to give up her analysis—Belle the researcher; what discoveries could they have made together, if he had invited her into his lab? With her mastery of the written word, why had he never thought to ask her help in searching through the Dark One's library?

Belle shrugged and replaced her shoe, and only then did she remember the coins. She collected them, counted them, slipped them into her pocket, and head held high, waltzed into the inn, her unknown servant trailing along behind, tugging respectfully at his cap in salute of the ladies and gentlemen within. Belle marched up to the desk and ordered a hot meal, a hot bath and a top-floor room. Following her up the stairs, he sniggered: only the best for his Belle.

He guarded her door as she ate, scrutinizing the girl who brought her food and the pair of boys who brought up the iron tub and filled it with hot water. They kept their distance and spoke only when spoken to, and they left as soon as she paid them. He watched as she peeled off her shoes—shaking them upside down just in case she'd missed something, and prodding at the mysterious leather. With a chuckle he conjured one more coin to fall out. She huffed before setting the shoes carefully at the foot of the bed. She peeled off her dusty, sweat-stained dress—he sat on the window sill, swinging his legs and watching her with a sly smile. In her shift she dined: thinking herself alone, she tore the bread with her hands and dunked it into the gravy, stuffed the concoction into her mouth and released a small moan of satisfaction as she chewed. He chuckled behind his hand as she licked her fingers. The meat and the vegetables suffered the same fate as the bread—he never knew Belle was so fond of gravy. There were some little pastries and slices of cheese to finish the meal, and then with a glance at the door, ensuring herself that she was still alone and unwatched, Belle lifted the plate to her lips, uncurled her tongue and licked off the last of the gravy.

Rumple guffawed and nearly fell out the open window then.

Frowning, as though some sound had disturbed her, she left the tray on the dresser and walked over to the window. With a gulp he transported himself to the dresser, shoving the tray aside to make room so he could sit. She couldn't see or hear him, he was sure of it, but . . . She closed the window and drew the curtains shut.

And then she walked over to the tub, dipped a toe in to test the heat of the water, and, satisfied, lifted her shift over her head.

No one had ever accused Rumplestiltskin of being a saint. He peeked.

As she let down her hair and stepped into the tub, he pretended he was looking at her with an artist's objective eye. He would draw her full form someday, a nude of course, as all the great artists did, so he had to get the details right. Sure.

She fell asleep in the tub, her head cocked backwards against the rim. He locked the door—she had forgotten to—and waited.

* * *

As dusk fell, the innkeeper's wife rapped discreetly at the door, calling, "Milady? Would you order supper now? Shall the boys remove the tub?"

Belle snuffled as she awoke, splashed out of the now-cold water and searched for her dress. In the coming darkness she couldn't find it. Besides, the thing was filthy: it was time her bag was delivered to her. He ordered the bag to fly to her bed and made it visible to her. A shame to cover such beauty—though pruny from the long soak. "One moment!" she begged, fumbling at the nightstand for a lucifer to light the candle there.

Rumple wasn't giggling any more. His breath caught as the candlewick caught fire and yellow light filled the room. She stood there, hair dripping, hands on her hips, scanning the floor for her dress, his own Aphrodite rising from the sea. He waved his hand and made the dirty dress disappear: it wasn't fit to touch this flawless skin.

Frustrated, she slapped her hands against her sides. And then she saw the bag. She frowned. She opened it, shook out the contents—the book, the clothes, the shoes, the money. She set her hands on her hips and stared, and then she pursed her lips.

The innkeeper's wife tapped again. "Milady?"

Belle grabbed the first dress she saw and flung it over her head. She pattered barefoot—what lovely little feet!—across the room and opened the door. "Yes, please, have the boys come up and take the tub." She walked over to the dresser and Rumple hastily threw himself across the room to get out of her way. She picked up the tray of dirty dishes and handed it to the landlady. "Thank you, yes, I'd like supper now." When the door was safely closed behind her, she leaned against it with a long sigh before pattering back to the bed and rifling through the clothes for undergarments. She dressed herself properly and combed her hair with her fingers—he'd forgotten her hairbrush. She folded the clothes neatly, gathered the coins and placed everything back into the bag, and then sat down on the bed.

"I know you're here," she said. "This—" she patted the bag beside her—"could only be your doing. Show yourself, Rumplestiltskin."

Sheepishly, he climbed down off the ceiling and showed himself.

"You followed me." Her arms folded across her chest.

He felt like a little boy who'd just gotten caught in some mischief. "Yes."

"All the way from the Dark Castle."

"Yes."

"You. . . magicked all this. The coins in my shoe, too."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I had to be sure you were safe. There are many dangers for a lone traveler, even a very capable and brave one." He lowered his voice. "And especially for a woman whose last employer was the Dark One."

She gave this some thought. He expected she would shout at him, throw her shoes at him, but she just sat there thinking.

"Let me follow you, until you get where you're going," he urged. "To keep you safe."

"Or you could give me what I need to protect myself."

He sighed in resignation. Nodding, he conjured a dagger into her lap.

She inspected it. "Is it magic?" She hated the things his magic produced; he knew that.

"Yes," he admitted. "It will protect you as you sleep. Anyone who comes at you with ill intentions will be stopped. Belle, I know you don't want it, but if you're going to travel alone—or a dog. Let me conjure you a guard dog—"

"I can't very well walk into an inn with a dog, can I? I accept the dagger." She laid it on the nightstand. "Thank you."

He perched upon the dresser again, giving her space to move about the room if she preferred. "Will you tell me where you're going?"

"Why?"

He stared at his claws and said in a low voice, "I'll feel better if I know. To know you're all right there."

"I have cousins there. I'll be all right." She smoothed the fabric of her skirt. "I know I can't go home again. I've seen enough of society to know how that works—enough of my father to know he can't defend me. . .won't accept me, if he thinks I'm. . . tainted. But I have distant cousins, whom I've met only once, and they will accept me. They live too far away to have heard the rumors, and I'll be careful to intercept any letters of inquiry they may send to my father. By the time they learn where I've been, it'll be too late." She smiled wickedly. "They'll love me by then."

"I have no doubt."

She looked him in the eye. "As you do."

"As I do. I do love you, Belle."

She slid off the bed and came to him, grasping his claws, pressing them together against her cheek. "Don't do it," she whispered.

"Do-?"

"Don't send me away. Don't do the thing you've been planning, the evil thing that keeps you locked in your lab for days on end, that drives you to make deals with horrible people like Regina. Don't do it and we can be together."

"I have to," he blurted, cupping her face, smoothing back her damp hair. "For Bae. I have to, for Bae."

"Tell me about him."

And he couldn't stop himself: her magic reached into his locked soul and pulled the truth out. He talked a rapid whisper, the words tripping over each other, and he told her about Bae, and then Milah and the Dark One and Regina and the curse that was upon him and the curse that he would have Regina unleash upon the Enchanted Forest. As he was nearing the end of his explanation, the innkeeper's wife returned with food, and the boys came to fetch the tub, and he made himself invisible again while Belle answered the door.

But when the door was safely closed, he reappeared, and Belle led him to the bed and lay against his chest as he finished his tale, and when he finally stopped talking the candle had burned down, the sun had risen, Belle's supper had gone cold, and his face and hers were wet with tears.

He sat up, raised her chin so he could look into her eyes, brushed her tears away with his thumb. As he looked into her eyes, there was nothing left to decide: he had already surrendered to this love. For the first time in his life, fear gave way to something new, something he recognized as stronger. "I love you, Belle."

Her eyes grew wide as he drew her to him; she understood now the risk he was taking. If he kissed her, his curse would be broken, his magic lost. She whispered, "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more certain," he said. "Where you go, I'll follow, if you'll have me."

She released a sound that half-laugh, half-cry. "I'll have you, Rumplestiltskin."

He brought his hands up, sinking them into the richness of her hair, touched his lips to hers, softly at first, and then powerfully, confidently, through his kiss sharing with her the faith he felt in the strength and permanence of their love.

And as he lost himself in the kiss, his heart started to beat again. He felt something loosen in his chest and the voice that had driven him for two centuries, the voice that had purred when he killed and cheered when he dealt and shrieked when he let mercy or kindness dictate his actions, the voice went suddenly silent. His skin tingled and pulled tight and the vibrations that had haunted his hands for two centuries—the thrumming of magic—withdrew from his fingers like a flood that's been dammed—withdrew from his hands, from his arms, from his body. His skin was a pinkish brown, like a shepherd's, rough from exposure to nature's elements, but no longer scaly. He was human.

When they parted for air, she touched his face and tears appeared in her eyes. "It's gone." She ran her hands over his hair and his hands, her voice shaking. "It's gone." She met his eyes. "You gave up your magic for me."

He didn't know how to explain it to her. He stroked her hair, her soft, luxurious hair. He picked up a strand of her beautiful hair and kissed it humbly. "Nothing. I gave up nothing real. I have everything that matters."

"Bae—"

He shook his head. "Wherever he is, his love for me lives; I can feel it. The Dark magic is gone, but there's a stronger power that binds souls together, that conquers death, brings life into the world."

She raised to look at him. "We already possess that magic, don't we? You and I for each other. You for Bae. It's love that defies death, isn't it?"

He cocked his head. "That's love, yes."

She smiled. "It's love that brings life into the world, isn't it?"

"It is." He touched her cheek, wondering for just a moment what their children could look like. "Love is the greatest power of all."

"That's not just a metaphor?"

"No, it's a literal truth as well."

She closed her eyes in thought. "Many times, I've heard you say, 'If you can bottle True Love, you can do anything.'"

"Yes."

"Even find Bae?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it. But Belle, it's impossible. True Love can't be captured or copied or manufactured. Mages have tried since the beginning of magic, and it can't be done."

"Have _you_ tried?"

"For centuries," he sighed, dropping his head back on the pillow.

"Try again."

"It's impossible."

"Why?"

"It would require an unlimited supply for me to experiment with. True Love is extremely rare; it can't be bought at any price."

She plucked at a patch of dragon hide on his vest. "You have an unlimited supply now." She kissed him, then drew back to smile at him. "And I give it to you free of charge."

His skin began to tingle.

"Try again," she urged. "And let me help."

He sat upright, staring at her. His hands began to vibrate.

"For the rest of my life, if you'll have it, Rumplestiltskin, I will work with you to find Bae, and I will love you."

He raised his hands to her face to kiss her again, but she grasped his hands to stay him. "Do you feel that?" she gasped.

His body was shaking as if he'd suddenly taken a terrible chill. She pulled his hands from her face and turned them palm up, examining them closely. "There's a. . . a vibration." She ran a finger along the veins in his wrist. "Here, from within."

It felt so familiar, yet different; more controlled. . . serene. He dared not name it; he had to be wrong; his curse was broken and the magic, gone. Still, his hands vibrated—and then they began to glow, not with the cold, purple glow that his magic produced, but with a warm glow, inviting, and blue-white. . . like the magic of the fairies.

"What's happening?" Belle whispered, studying his face. "You're changing. Your eyes!"

Without thinking he snapped his fingers and produced a mirror. He examined his eyes, which were no longer gold and reptilian, but neither were they the brown of his human days; they were—

"Look what you did!" she exclaimed.

"What I—?" Then realization sank in. The mirror in his hands—he had conjured it. The eyes that looked back at him in the mirror were blue.

He stood and flicked his hand in the direction of the supper tray: it transformed into a bouquet of roses, red and white; he flicked his hand again and a spray of baby's breath appeared, edging the roses. He knelt, presented the bouquet to his lady as a knight would, and then he snapped his fingers and a crown of daisies appeared on Belle's head. He walked about the room, snapping his fingers and changing things, and he and Belle giggled with every transformation, until the innkeeper's wife tapped on the door and asked if milady would like breakfast brought up. He nodded and whispered, "I'm famished!"

"Uhm, yes, please, bring a lot; I'm famished!" Belle answered through the door.

"Right away, milady." They listened for the retreating footsteps.

"How did it come back?" Belle wondered.

He perched upon her window sill, the sun warm and soothing on his skin, his human skin. "It's not back," he judged. "This isn't the Dark magic. It's more like—" Then a horrible thought hit him and he spun around. "Quick, Belle, look."

She came up behind him. He could feel her touching him, but it wasn't his shoulder or his back she was touching. "My gods, Rumple. You have—wings."

He conjured a full-length mirror and positioned himself sideways to it. He swallowed hard, then with a wince shrugged his shoulders. . . and a pair of gossamer wings slowly opened and fluttered. He stared at her in shock. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come. He glanced back at the mirror with a helpless expression, fluttered the wings again sadly. "Belle. . . I'm a fairy."

She wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his back. His wings closed around her protectively. "It's. . . nice. I love you, no matter what you are."

He looked at them in the mirror and muttered. "I'm a _fairy_!" A few vulgar terms escaped him.

She moved around him, laid her hands on his chest. "You're still Rumplestiltskin."

"This will not stand." He thought for a long moment: in all his years of study, he'd never come across a spell to amend. . . this. He had to improvise. After several failed attempts, he made the wings go away, and when they did, his eyes turned brown again. He sighed and slumped on the bed.

"Are you still. . . ?"

"I'm afraid so. I just don't look it." He gritted his teeth. "Gods help me, I never will look like that again."

"Is it so bad?" she sat down beside him, running her hand along his back soothingly. "You have magic again. And it's different than theirs, isn't it? I mean, they have to have a wand."

"Yes. . . ."

"It seems just as powerful as before, doesn't it?"

"I'll have to test it."

Belle turned his face to hers and kissed him, first to soothe him, but then she seemed to forget that purpose and began to explore his mouth. A knock on the door came just in time. As Belle rose to answer the knock, he grasped her hand. "Belle—do you have any objections to marrying a fairy?"

She threw her head back and laughed. "I'll take you any way you are."

"First we eat, then we find a holy man, then we bottle True Love."

She nodded. "And then we find Bae. Together."

He made himself invisible as she walked to the door. She thought she heard him mutter as he disappeared, "A _fairy_."

"Then the Blue Fairy will have to help us, won't she?" Belle opened the door.

"Hey. . .she will, won't she?" And he giggled.


End file.
